by A. J. Lape
I was on the verge of hyperventilating when Justin took Juan’s spot. His lips were thin and unattractive, his eyes dark and deadly. On a body that was well over 200 pounds, he certainly was throwing off the crazy.
At first, he did nothing but stare behind me. My OCD kicked in, and I caught myself counting to sixty seconds then backwards to thirty. Next, I thought the Pythagorean Theorem is a2 + b2 = c2 and Descartes said, I think, therefore I am. Then it popped into my head, The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. My mind was firing with random information, although useless at the moment.
When I attempted to recite the presidents backwards, Justin finally said coolly, “You know nothing.”
Well, well, well, Justin had a voice.
I gave him a mocking, astonished smile. “So, it speaks,” I said. Jeez, that was confrontational, not to mention degrading, but I had a feeling if I didn’t get them mad they weren’t going to say anything.
“And your mouth is bigger than I expected,” Justin said sarcastically.
“I am blessed,” I said just as sarcastic.
“You’re soon to be dead.” Mark that in the Threat File. If I couldn’t get them on anything else, at least I could get a restraining order and keep myself alive until I had more proof.
“Why Alfonso?”
Justin did some mental deliberating, wondering if what he’d said was going to incriminate him or perhaps wondering if it even mattered since he’d already decided on my demise. He gave up nothing, so I put words in his mouth. “When you want to send a big message, you send AVO back their biggest game, right?”
Justin looked me square in the eye. It was like reading the spookiest set of tealeaves ever concocted. I saw crimes beyond misdemeanors and years of something that made him who he was today. There was hate, fear, mistrust—and the concept of getting even.
Jinx and Juan were amateurs...Justin? Justin put the psycho in killer.
I tried another angle. “Did you kill the man downtown and stuff him into another dumpster?” Once again, no answer, but I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. More and more I was convinced something went wrong with this “hit” on Alfonso Juarez. In my gut, I felt all three murders were the work of the same individual, but why the extra gift of severing Alfonso’s hand?
People like Justin didn’t like to be insulted. For some reason, he wanted or needed to be at the helm of a bunch of losers. I went for broke saying the one thing I knew would goad him into action. “It must be an awful feeling to always fail at something, Justin. The hit with Juarez went south; my guess is with you at the helm that was almost inevitable.”
Yup that did it.
Justin went bonkers. “I didn’t screw it up!” he emphasized, curling his fists. “I had no control over the situation! Things didn’t happen the way…” He jerked like he’d just dodged a runaway car. Aaaah, I thought to myself, that was all but an admission. I gave him the biggest, face-rubber smile I could muster...an acknowledgment he’d just admitted he was involved, and I now had him.
Miles and miles of silence stood between us. I’m not sure what happened first, me screaming or Justin’s thick, burly hands circling my neck. In a matter of seconds, he backed me up against the glass, sending breaking and cracking sounds echoing into the air. I wondered if glass was in the back of my head, but the more he squeezed, the harder it was to think. White spots invaded my sight, and the moment my air started thinning, the blur of a body muscled its way between us as I slumped to the floor breathless.
Liam Woods, I thought. When did he get here?
Very rarely are fights fair. I’m not sure why I thought this one would be any different. By the time I was able to stand, no Jinx was in sight, and Juan and Justin were in a war of words with Liam. Liam ripped the red bandana out of Juan’s pocket, and when Juan jutted his chin in his face, Liam shoved him up against the mirror with his right hand.
The whole ambience shifted when Justin jumped into the middle. A rising river of testosterone and mounting threats filled the space. My thoughts were beyond ridiculous. I wanted to make Justin cry, I wanted to hurt him so bad he lost all rational thought and jabbered out Swahili. Inhaling faster and deeper, I fought the urge to help Liam, knowing my best chance was to get backup. When the three amped up the shoving and ultimatums—talking about me like I was nothing less than Lucifer—it was apparent a melee was inevitable. Frightened to my bones, I staggered up and barreled fast for the door and right into the well-muscled chest of my best friend.
Wrapping his arms around me, it took Dylan half a heartbeat to realize Justin was up to no good.
“Hello, Justin,” Dylan said low, giving a head jerk to Liam. “I wasn’t aware you were on my sister’s invite list, but by the way you’re currently looking at my best friend, I’m confident you won’t be on any list if you don’t find the exit.”
Justin’s face went ice cold, and dumb of the dumb, he called me a profane name. Dylan flinched, but surprisingly stood still. That wasn’t good, folks. That meant he was considering something worse than a kneejerk reaction.
“Shut up with your holier-than-thou statements, Taylor,” Justin sneered, suddenly confident. “All of us weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouths like you were.”
Justin had an unapologetic arrogance, and I briefly wondered why he was wired the way he was. It wasn’t the time to dive into his inner child; I wasn’t so sure he didn’t come concealing weapons.
Dylan laughed darkly. “Holier-than-thou? This has nothing to do with holier-than-thou. You’re in my home, insulting my best friend. That’s not holier-than-thou; that’s taking care of what’s mine.”
If I had time to think about it, that statement was sort of…hot.
Justin dumbly snorted then straightened his back as Dylan slowly and determinedly stalked forward, strategically placing himself between us. When things made me nervous, I found myself hiding behind Dylan’s back anyway. I’d place one foot behind him, grab his belt loop, and literally peer around his shoulder. Most of the time my joking got me in trouble.
My word, if he only knew...
As usual, he appeared nonplussed, shoving me further back.
“Darcy invited me,” Justin said truthfully. I never confirmed, denied, nor did anything other than look stupid. Dylan didn’t even turn to catch my eye, assuming Justin was merely lying.
“Is that right?” Dylan sneered. “Darcy has better taste than someone as vile and corrupt as you.”
“Say it, Taylor,” he taunted, laughing. “Say how scared stiff you are of me being here.”
Dylan didn’t look scared. In fact, he yawned.
Justin dropped an f-bomb...paused two seconds for effect, then added, “you.”
Dylan’s words came out with a hiss. “I’m positive you didn’t just say that to me in my own home.”
Yeah, he did, because he’s a foulmouthed letch.
“Go,” Dylan warned. “Now.”
That was it, I thought. Dylan had paused to think about what was to come next, and that was the last invitation he was going to offer Justin to exit unscathed. The muscles in his back tensed, power rolling down to his feet. He was itching for action, and he didn’t even need to admit it.
Justin had a fake nonchalance going on and was dumb enough to curse him again.
You know in a perfect world males would say, Sorry, man, no harm, no foul. It was just a misunderstanding. But with someone as overly inundated with testosterone as Dylan, that just wasn’t going to happen. He put on his game-face, rolling his neck and stretching his back, giving that look that said, It’s just a matter of time before my foot’s on your chest as the winner of the round. Sounds came from his chest that were base instinct and animalistic—like they were from someone who’d been chained too long that was begging to come out and play.
Dylan lunged for Justin first, but Justin came out swinging like he was fighting the devil himself. With an otherworldly speed and unnatural fluidity, Dylan avoided a series o
f punches, pounding away on his Justin’s body, but even though Justin was smaller, he kept coming like a wolf seeking blood. Justin landed a few but in no way matched the piercing bite of Dylan’s fists on his face. His head bobbed this way and that, and I feared it was going to roll right off his shoulders.
People do a lot of things when they fight. They curse, dodge in and out of barbs, probably wondering if it would look too cowardly if they bolted for the door. Then there were those that never looked back and gave into their primordial urges to silence their opponent by any means deemed necessary. Whatever went on between Justin and Dylan’s ears, it was clear both were cut from the same cloth.
The moment I swung my gaze to Liam for help, panic overtook me as fighting broke out between Liam and Juan. In seconds flat, Juan had a cut over his left eye, and Liam had a gash on his cheek. Liam body-slammed Juan onto the mat, and Juan’s body shook like it had been hit with 50,000 volts. A roar broke from his mouth as he headbutted Liam then both were a blur of motion as they rolled around on the floor. What was I supposed to do? Jump into the middle? Get in a few punches myself? Raise my hand and say, Hey, attack me instead?
I laughed or cried, or some combination of the two. I was having a serious nervous breakdown and came to the conclusion I was one of those people that didn’t have the mental wherewithal to save my own sorry rear end, let alone anyone else’s. You know, the people in the movies that you scream at because they don’t do anything worthwhile except steal the air of the would-be heroes. It wasn’t a proud moment, people, but it was an honest look at myself. I needed to work on my reaction skills, if anything.
I was reminded of when I was ten years old.
My grandfather lives on a farm in Kentucky. Crap happens in Kentucky that neither man nor animal nor preacher can explain, but I’d always categorized it as one of the mysteries of the South. I fell over a fence into the pasture where Grandpa Winston held his meanest bull. It was quarantined because no matter how many play dates it had, it would always lower its head, charge, and gouge the other animal. When I sailed over into its pasture, I literally was struck dumb. Predictably, it sniffed and charged, but when Winston miraculously appeared—giving it a look that could only come from Hell itself—it literally turned on its hooves and trotted away. Justin looked like that bull. Heck, Dylan looked like a bigger bull. I tried to find my inner-Kentucky, but I’m ashamed to say, I might be too much of a city girl.
Note to self: Take a trip to Kentucky sometime soon.
Right then I heard an exasperated and horrified, “Dolce!” I think I turned to the voice, but frankly I was still scared senseless. By the time I figured out it was Vinnie, he’d thundered to my side, put two-and-two together I was “on the job,” and attempted to drag Dylan off a bleeding Justin before he left the party—his parting gift a body bag.
Vinnie made no headway with Dylan. No matter how you looked at it that genie was out, and we couldn’t shove him back in the bottle.
Sweating Red Bull and what smelled like barbecued ribs, Vinnie literally dove into the midst and shoved a still-punching Dylan back up against a wall, barked a few garbled words then peeled a bleeding Justin off the mat. My word, Justin could barely catch a breath while Dylan looked exhilarated.
Once Dylan’s eyes bled back into focus, he held his arms wide, and I ran right into them. He crushed me to his body, my arms folded into his chest. “I—can’t—breathe,” I coughed out.
He laughed darkly, still acting like someone the rest of the world wouldn’t recognize. “Such an overrated concept,” he murmured. “I’m more of the hugging type. Are you okay, sweetheart?”
Who me? I thought. I was beginning to think I belonged in an insane asylum. But I was successful, I reminded myself. Justin had practically given me an admission, so I decided to overlook any indiscretions…like a good, little conflict avoider who buried her conscience.
“Best laid plans of mice and men,” Justin said to me smirking, as Vinnie escorted him toward the door. My word, he was pointing out he knew it was my plan to get them there, while rubbing in my face that Dylan foiled my efforts. The glint in his eyes reminded me he came with a plan, too. One that got delayed but was going to happen no matter what kind of perilous state it left me in.
I shivered, crossing my fingers he wasn’t successful.
Glancing back to Liam, he was pulling along Juan who pounded himself in the head, as if he was saying, Stupid, stupid, stupid. My guess was, that wasn’t a conscience. It was a competing voice that was angry something went wrong. I think I mumbled, “I’m in trouble,” but then Dylan put his arm around me.
“Shh, come on, Darc,” he murmured, eyeing the glass mirrors, pleased that no cracks were visible. “Let’s go back to the party.”
Vinnie and I stole a silent look at one another, assessing the fifteen-year-old before us who literally beat someone to a pulp, stood up then wanted to rejoin the fun. He probably wanted a burger when I was about to barf all over the place. Dylan was something the rest of us weren’t. How many bodies were there going to be before I figured out what that was?
“Your cheatin' heart will make you weep. You'll cry and cry and try to sleep. But sleep won't come the whole night through. Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you.”
I was floating in that final phase of sleep where you think you’re awake, but you’re really not. Your Cheatin’ Heart was playing two times too loud on the overhead speakers, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe I didn’t want to get up. I liked country music, but it wasn’t my go-to genre. I had to be in the mood, but if there were a song written about almost getting knocked off in the weight room, maybe I’d start wearing cowboy boots.
Of what I did like, Hank Williams was a personal favorite and according to music history, he wrote and recorded that song from personal experience. Whoever was singing next to me sounded like they’d lived those lyrics but was tone-deaf, depressed, and looking for a bar stool. They either were having relationship problems or were pining away for the one that got away.
When they belted out, “Your cheatin’ heart will pine some day. And crave the love you threw away. The time will come when you'll be blue…”
I finished, “Your cheatin’ heart, will tell on you.”
Squinting with one eye, I saw Jon Bradshaw shirtless, wearing a pair of faded navy board shorts with a red cup in his hand and a gray ball cap turned with the bill backwards.
“You sing worse than me,” he chuckled.
“Shut your pie hole,” I mumbled, but it was true. I opened my mouth, and it sounded like I’d swallowed a duck or was a sick cat during mating season on its ninth life.
Last I remember, I was lying on my back in a chaise lounge. Propping myself up by the elbows, I noticed the party was still going strong. A net had been strung across the middle of the pool, and six very aggressive players were playing water polo. Unfortunately, most of the water was outside the pool. Plus, the majority of the sand was wet and people were rolling around in it like dirty pigs. “How long have I been asleep?” I asked, massaging a developing eye twitch.
Jon sat down on the edge of my seat, frowning at the blatant disrespect before us. “I’ve been here about an hour, Walker, and you’ve snored the entire time. Some party girl you are.”
I stuck out my tongue.
Dylan wasn’t playing, so I stood up to see if he was shooting pool in the other room...not there. Casting a glance outside, he wasn’t cooking on the grill either, but his mother was bringing in a platter piled high with hotdogs. She stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping when she stepped onto wet sand. Practically catapulting the food onto the bar, she angrily marched over to Sydney, her mouth running like an oil slick.
Standing up, I mumbled, “This is bad. Where’s D?”
Grumpy got this strange look on his face, like panic crossed with a smile. If he ever smiled, and I mean EVER, it was only seen in his eyes. For a brief moment they twinkled, and then just as fast the twinkle vanished. “Umm, he left f
or a while.”
Another eye twitch. “He left for a while,” I repeated.
He blurted out, “He walked Brynn home, okay?” Next, he squinted his eyes shut, as if he was preparing for a smack. I forgot how to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. “Are you alright?” he chuckled.
My eye twitch grew terminal. “But the party’s not over yet.”
“I think they went to another party.”
A ball whizzed by my head, landing on a glass table in the corner, knocking over a stack of red cups. “Seriously?” I screeched for clarification.
“Brynn started feeling ill and asked him to walk her home. Sounded fishy to me.”
Sounded desperate (or devious) to me.
Justice pulled herself out of the pool presumably to get the ball Finn almost decapitated me with. Shaking the water out of her auburn hair, she snagged it and pitched it back in the pool, picking up a striped towel and wrapping it around her black swimsuit.
“And Sleeping Beauty finally rises,” she laughed. “Wow, you look horrible.” Leave it to Justice to spare no punches.
I groaned. “I’ve had a rough night.” I’m pretty sure I was going to rot in Hell after the stunt I’d just pulled; my guess was the night was going to get rougher.
Justice sat down and literally dropping from the sky next to her was Liam. A smiling Liam with a tiny bandage on his cheek—like not a darn thing had gone down in the weight room that probably should send us to military school or some sort of long-term counseling. He was wearing blue and white flowered swimming trunks, and his chest was ballooned out so much under his shirt I wanted to touch it. Funny, I hadn’t registered what he was wearing before. Guess that happened when you were trying to stay alive.